Amazing Nature Photos

Prose Poetry Funny Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Funny

These Prose Poetry Funny poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Funny. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Funny poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Think Of You - An Alternative Universe - 6


From childhood it was a world of two...you and I...
I leaned lightly, leisurely against your heart and you let me in.

We were five I use to draw you rose scented flowers
using an ordinary led pencil. Youth! The world was ours.

Seven!  I know that was the first time I saw you blush.
I whispered a song for you so no one else would hear.

Oh when we were nine! The potato sack race.  I entered with Lisa.
 You gave me that look. Oh that look!  And you  left without a word.

At eleven years old I had my "magic wink". "A Magic Wink" you'd
say sarcastically.  How it made you giggle to make fun of it.

It was at thirteen we decided to burn the gym floor with our moves.
Our first dance.  You stole my breath. Emptied the room of oxygen.

Fifteen...we started running and my God we ran and ran...
our shoe prints dug into the concrete. It was then I knew. Forever.

Then suddenly at seventeen in the slip of time you left, dissapeared.
Stunned! I slept through the next two years even in the full light of day.

At nineteen I swam an endless pool but even the chlorine couldn't
clear your scent from my memory as my spirit filled out hard as steel.

Was it on my twenty first birthday you showed up? You showed up
 tried to hug me hello. Silent! Cold! I turned and walked away.

Was I still twenty one when I apologized for that day. When you asked 
for an explanation. I recited false words but we both knew. Hurt for hurt.

Then at twenty five we still had issues to work out. I asked you bluntly 
why you cut me loose in the prime of our youth. You my first and only.

I asked the question that burned in my gut. Without words your eyes spoke. 
You were still in love with me. There was only me. I your first and only.

Finally our lips met to never part again. Left to wonder why, I accept our 
lives without an answer. My love was that. Why would I have let you go?

Older than old now. One last time you leave. Death makes this choice. 
Alone again I remember how I never knew why once you left.

Not everything  is explained or understood,
like music by a one arm man playing a violin.

I sport my blank stare. Naked is the body of life.
Mystery sings blind the song of the lark!

and I...

i think of you.



March 29 2015
Armand




Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To be silly with-

I would love to swim to the 'Guilamine' in the skin
Or dance on a carpet of sheer pleasure
I might like an ice-cream cone on the way
Topped with pink and golden treasure.
I would enjoy a drink made of sparkles
That might light up with yellow-red magic
My dreary grey-blue life – and then
I would anticipate with joy an umbrella
Made of silk and maidenhair fern
To be silly with – 




Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Ignoramus: Who Is Not Far From Being A Fool

When everyone goes east, he heads west to him, every dialogue is a contest comes into an interaction as the biggest then leaves agonisingly as the lowest. When he speaks, you know he is half-honest even though he truly knows, but not near the best. He always end up lost in the forest this simple fact, he cannot digest. The moment he shamefully fails the test he begins to manifest then becomes far from being modest and everyone around him, he treats like unwanted guests. Causing a general unrest as he unnecessarily protest. All over his countenance, ignorance crests not accepting defeat, he holds high his egocentric chest. Quick to make jest but correction; he equates to incest and disagreements, he always detest. We all have the quest to know and share the latest so as to add value to ourselves and self-invest which can be a cultivation to future harvest. But knowing it all is impossible and knowing half, believing to know all is ridiculous. Admiting not to know it all is the fairest but this is yet not comprehensible to him, to whom; to know is like a conquest. The wise keep quiet lest, they cause him to become the tempest and with every word, he neutralizes any palatable zest. Oh poor child! change or you'll suffer from everlasting molest where no one wants to visit your nest not because you are unblest but cos of the truth of your infest which now, is obviously clearest. It is good to learn my child and sharing is an attribute of Love. But run away from half baked lines or be humble enough to listen while they become fully whole. You were given two ears and one mouth hence talk less and listen more because an Ignoramus is always not far from becoming a fool!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Camp Anawana (An Ode to 20-somethings' Nostalgia)

Sometimes I can't believe it
It all happened so fast
Real life is truly here
Just who is that looking at me in the mirror?
How come these bills are addressed to my name?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

Sometimes I miss the days
When your crush had cooties, not STDs
And afternoons were spent climbing trees
And it's hard to grasp our age
Who's that man calling you "his wife"?
How come that little girl just called you Dad?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And we're all grown up

Sometimes the kids today
Make me feel so old when they say
They've never heard of Kurt Cobain
But I know that we're better
Cause we could fix our Nintendo in just one blow
And we all figured this out sans Twitter
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

I remember the stupid things
Pogs and Goosebump books
Playlists were mixtapes on cassettes
And Friday nights meant TGIF on ABC
Nickelodeon was our only obsession
Friend requests were made in person
And they still showed music videos on MTV
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And it's a different world - Nothing's the same
Cause we're all grown up

Copyright © Shannon O'Brien | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who

I stepped out on my lawn tonight
To catch a breath or two
Of cool night air when with a blare
An Owl questioned "Who?".

"Well, it is I", was my reply
"And now, just who are you?"
Then in a short he did report 
Again with that same "Who". 

"You", I said, "Is who", I said
With some authority
"Now who are thee, up in that tree?"
And "Who" again said he. 

"Oh! Now I see, when uttered thee
From high up in that tree
'Who' was thy introduction
And not a question be. 

So, Who is you and I am me. 
I'm glad we talked this out. 
Come again my feathered friend
You're welcome here about."

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

GLOOPIER GLOOP

I was finding it ''hard myself to stir'' so with inspiration i did confer..

OH!..dang confound..its writers block! so what for an antidote.? i shall

add more stock..! an input of chros, with celer and cede indeed.! that will

really flux the plot i do (soupose:) now...then..verber the radix..when..!

plop..splat.. right!  in  my  eye.! a burning liquid alubi, oh.!bother this

stew will it ever be eytem.?..hold.on a juxta minute..! ceno cogn hibit

vert..! and it..it.. seems to go..! yess i sense more rhythm..with..that..that,

..soupy flow..!

copyright Joe Maverick 2012
amended 29th 2nd 2012

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Tree's Blog

George and his stupid acorns.
He has no sense of boundaries--
danged things falling on my head.
And Celia. She thinks she's all that
with her new clothes: red, yellow,
green, orange. How passe!
And then Baldy, the coward,
so afraid of winter he went stark
naked even before fall started.
And here come  those helicopters again,
courtesy of Myrtle the maple. 
They get into absolutely everything.
Sometimes I think I'm the only one with
any sense around here. You won't
see MY leaves going all psychedelic
or turning brown or flying helicopters.
Me? I stay green all year round, and 
I don't go dropping leaves and nuts 
all over the place. Sure, I have cones, 
but they're actually more like accessories.
You can use them in arts and crafts 
and as Christmas ornaments,
Speaking of Christmas, what month is it?
November you say? Late November?

Wait! What are you going to do with that ax?
Hey, let's talk about this...   
				8/24/15

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I hate shopping

I hate shopping 
but when I go shopping
I know what I’m looking for
I go to the right store
I go to the right floor
I grab it 
they bag it
and I am out the door
Shopping is an awful chore

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Mercenary-Based Acquaintance

A young pretty lady, seeking company from an unknown
and to the hospitality of my open arms, she quickly lodge.
A stranger still remains an alien until some acquaintance is established
seeing what is right in front of me, such a feeling was purged.

Sweet conversation, chilly atmosphere and some sense of belonging
are benefits attached, hence nothing observable to judge.
Her youthful exuberance was glaringly into play,
but it was stimulating and an effective nudge.

She’s damn good! - Soft touches, sexual tricks, and erotic riddles,
all put my physiological smoke into heavy surge.
A sudden feeling of satisfaction and a ‘game over’ countenance surfaces,
she’s definitely an expert and what’s next is to dodge.

Taking a polite excuse, she run-walks to the bar’s comfort zone,
my instincts begin to define all her gestures to be a forge.
Then I realize my fat wallet is her hired escort,
officially making me a stranded victim of a beautiful scourge.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

I
change my name 
like 
underwear...
fairly often, I suppose

I 
change my clothes 
like 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

I 
keep it fresh ta' death
nada
speck of blood
or 
ketchup on my attire

I 
got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
and 
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

I 
digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
indeed 
rare to find

YET...
if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflective perspective (what you see is what you get)

What you see is what you get. 

When I look in the mirror I see I’ve got it.
Perhaps I’ve got a bit too much of it.

I walk past a store I can see in the window 
as he walks along with me he’s got it bad

I am comforted to know I’m not the only one

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Not Five

I was going to jump on the bed at midnight
While she slept to wish her a happy birthday.
But she looked so asleep and it was so quiet.
I did it anyway because it's funnier to go through with it.
It's not like I'm throwing a nerf ball at her head.
So I get my knees on the bed and hop up-and-down
And "whisper-yell," "happy birthday happy birthday."
And she's not upset, in fact, she's giggling. 
And she whispers to me that she loves me.
I whisper to her that I love her, too.
And I leave the room with the bed
I just jumped and sang on.
And I'm 32.
I mean it's not like I fell off the bed
While jumping and hurt my head.
And made an owie.
I'm not 5.

Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Where The Branches Stop Moving

"All is life. There should be no judgement."
"It is if you are at the foot of the Golden Palace 
                shouting at people that are continents away 
                to follow you, but they can't hear you, 
                much less see you and know where you are.
We're all among palaces, life is our creation."
"How can they re-create life?"
"Look down the river, where the wind stops, 
                See, see where the branches stop moving?"
"Yes."
"The creation is in the stillness."
"Nonsense."

(Silence.)

"Where are the fault lines?"
"We've re-created them."

(Silence.)

"And now count the many secrets we suddenly reveal to ourselves!"

(Silence.)

"I should take you to a NASCAR race."

Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

OXYMORON Newsflash:

"EARLY TONIGHT, according to HEAR SAY, things got PRETTY UGLY when a SINGLE GROUP of HELLS
ANGELS became SIMPLY IMPOSSIBLE to control during an ALL OUT MINOR CATASTROPHE at the
MICROSOFT WORKS sponsored MEXI-CALI JUMBO SHRIMP Festival“.


(in a strange way, this type of wishy-washy lingo reminds me of our lovely National news)

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Funny Little Evolution Game

In my game of life
I play sometimes against,
and sometimes with,
Time as Other player

Playing against
seems to have bad odds of feeling like a winner,
while playing with time
feels like we both win,
at least some Time,
especially if we simultaneously stretch
our love for gaming.

In my Evolution Game,
playing with and against Time as Other,
my rules emerge natural laws of healthy,
and pathology,
trends and order and political balance,
witnessed by elder spirit voices,
iconic memories of past Games
with diastatic/static 
diastolic/purgative
evolving rules of vocational recreation with co-passion play.

Nutrient rules flowing through my veins
and out through rivers of arteries of positive/negative trees
deep fertile cuts and folds,
articulating primal neural streams with suboptimizing substreams,
swelling mainframe-economy with eco-reiterating-nested synaptic revolutions
and co-ebbing aptic mutual win-sufficiency contentment,
more sustainable midway rest from playing against Other.

Now, in Time's anthro-game of evolving life
s/he plays sometimes against anger and fear memories,
and sometimes with love and peace future investment
with winwin outcome intent,
co-arising regeneratively healthy Anthro-Egos as Other players,
also running coincidental WinWin, WinLose, and LoseLose
strategic naturally emergent health functions and dis-easing pathology
with transitionally revolutionary co-incarnate bilateral form 
as postmillennial anthrocentric PlayNice frequencies of EarthTime.

In our love of eco-winning games
we play sometimes against cooperatively stretching regenesis,
and sometimes with Other natural loving life 
strategic nutrient-nurture optimization players,
whenever and wherever we can hunt and haunt them up,
make them up as iconic gods and goddesses,
as necessary to harvest win-winnowing together.

In this funny little evolution game,
it is wrong because impossible
to harvest winnings we have not regeneratively seeded,
as individual ego players
and as a potentially Earth-centric tribe of team players.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lawyer Envy

(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)

He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game

He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had 
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him

He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber

He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood

I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart

Copyright © KJ Hooten | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts from the Mind of a Blogger


It was a chilly morning in paradise...

Autumn was already here...

A time for strange things to happen, as it is that time of year...

She was up most of the night, doing a write....

Regarding some hubs and her series titled "Legend of Fred "

Ahh the questions she had... rolling around in her head..

Were “where were her readers, her followers “ her Hubbers...?

They had all seemed to like what she wrote in the past..

But lately her hubs were falling so fast....

She had written articles on health and life..

perhaps she had targeted too much strife...

Maybe they wanted to read about food..

But when you're not a cook, that would be kinda rude..

Oh, will wonders never cease ?

So she decided she'd get some zzzzz's

She lay in her bed, not moving at all...

but breathing quite deeply, as I saw the covers fall...

So I stretched my muscles and walked ever so slow..

So as not to wake her , then I spied her big toe..

Sticking out from the blanket..it was such a temptation..

And with me having such a" foot fixation".. however...

She needed the rest , so she can finish her quest..

I have some thoughts of my own...

that I would like to share in a poem..

And I would be happy to help her.. but..

I don’t think the world is ready for me...

as I am a BLOGGING CAT.. you see

So I will close for now...everyone have a great week...as

I'm off to seek something that has a tweak and a squeak..

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

crazy granny

Zooming down the road
Car running over a toad
Comes speeding granny
Complaining about some Danny
Blasting her music loud
Riding by flipping off a crowd
Grandma got that 16 age inside her
You never could be so sure
Why she's always cursing at a man
Or chasing somebody with that 
frying pan
We just know grandma got them 
kicks
Chilling with all those Hicks
Getting all her nails done
Bragging about a fight she won
Just know if she's headed your way
Better jump in that pile of hay
She's a wild child
Its crazy granny

Copyright © nastoshia siedlecki | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

World of Games

There are many types of games, 
Which are payed by Bond James. 

The games are also types of arts, 
Like the interesting game of Darts. 

Games are also called as toys, 
Which are played by girls and boys. 

Some games are very easy, 
But human beings are always busy. 

There is a game named cricket, 
Which is full of runs and wicket. 

The international competition of games is called Olympics, 
Which are played by using many tricks. 

Playing games will be more fun in Future, 
Because every human being will Mature. 

Copyright © Harshil Jain | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Symbiosis

"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."

“Dad, I’m going to straighten your closet for you,” 
my wife said as she set upon the task of pulling out his 
clothes and refolding and re-hanging each item.
“I have to go to the John.” was his reply.
“OK, you go. Need help?” she asked him.
“No.” Into the bathroom he went.
Immediately out he came again.
“Can you help me with my pants?”
“Sure dad, there you go.”
Back in again but leaving the door wide open this time.
She closed it and went back to the closet.
“Why don’t they put his things back the way they should go?”
Fold, hang, arrange.
“Dad are you OK in there? Do you need help?”
“No. Can you come in and help me with my pants?”
“Dad, you have them on backwards.
That’s why you can’t find the zipper. Here let me help.”
Out they both come. 
A successful mission.
“What do you think of your closet now?”
“Wow! I have the best looking closet in the whole place.”
“Yes you do. I’m going to talk to them about keeping it that way.”
Out the door she goes. 
A new purpose. 
Making things better for her dad.
“She’ll give them hell,” he said to me.
We watched the news for a while and then he got up.
He went to the closet and pulled out some clothes.
After unfolding them and looking at them he stuffed them back in.
Not in the right place. 
He sat down and smiled.

Tony Lane
A Fragment Of Life contest
Written 8/20/11

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jack and Jill - The real story

"Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after..."

Of course, neither wanted to climb that bloody hill at all.  Day after day mother would send them to fetch a pail of water, correction, pails of water.  Why, it was enough to drive any bloke mad.  And now on Sunday, for gawd's sake!  Everyone knows that Sunday is for resting, not fetching!  Here he was watching his favorite cartoon on the telly whence came that awful shriek: "Jack, fetch me a pail of water, NOW!"  Good gawd, she screamed like a bloody banshee!  And why did he always have to take his brat of a sister with him anyway?  She never carried the pail of water, he did.  Her part seemed to be nothing more than to make sure that he actually climbed that stupid hill instead of wandering off.  Along the way she would taunt him with things like: "Poor Jack, poor Jack, up the bloody hill you go lad.  Now do as your told or I'll tell mummy you've been bad."  Well, he wasn't having it today, not on his rest day!  So up the hill they went and just about the time that she started on with her annoying rant, he began to whistle so loudly that he couldn't hear a word she said.  Her face got as red as a tomato and he could swear that he saw steam billowing out of her ears.  Finally they reached the top of the hill.  He filled up the pail with water from the well and began his descent downward, when, at that very moment, the little wench stuck out her foot and tripped him, so that both he and the pail of water went tumbling down the hill.  The sight of it caused Jill to laugh so hard that she lost her balance and therewith came tumbling after.  Neither got supper that night!

Now you know the true story of Jack and Jill.  You know, they say that the devil is in the (bloody) details.   

Copyright © The Seeker | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An OD Pen

That pen just lies there on the pale white blank pad page__no activity; that sorry pen has O D on something dangerous_passed out_hardly breathing..Come on pen sit up_here sip on this strong coffee..That's it click, look around, life is active, inviting_write it down..Come on now_here eat up of these grits and red-eyed gravy; now that is an eye opener..You've slept through the last rose of summer that was deep burgundy long stemmed on the bush.  You missed that lucious kiss under the pale pink rose  that on the trellis grows.  Winter is coming on, sober up, get busy for you missed the Hummingbird sip nectar from the Wild Petunia then fly away leaving hundreds of Yellow Butterflies to get intoxicated upon its blooms..So you say you are awake now..Here let me kiss you beautiful ink flowing 'pon the page!


I think my pen OD on chocolate though!!!

Sponsor: Joann Grisetti
Contest: Drunken Pen Round 2

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daylight Savings Time

Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between what’s humorous and what’s not. It’s like trying to understand how daylight savings time impacts your sleep when you work in your yard or when you’re a cop walking a daytime beat on the street or when you’re old and retired and don’t have to set the alarm on your clock.  When it gets warm and the grass starts to grow you spring forward an hour and when it starts to get cold and the leaves fall from the trees you fall backwards an hour. 

I think if the ancient gods and goddesses knew about what we 21st century humans do with our clocks they’d laugh really hard at how we try to manipulate the truth about time with our electronic clocks. Then again maybe they’d get angry at our daylight saving time antics and decide to dim the light of the sun, or hide the moon from our eyes, or make all the white clouds disappear from the sky because they might also struggle like me with knowing the difference between what’s humorous and what’s not. 

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

LA Doggy Style

 
Pug noses in designer hoodies 
Wicker baskets on beach cruisers 
Leather sofas doggy devoted 
Grooming parlors and pet hotels 
Best pooch in wedding tux 
Nip and tuck, no more nuts 
Hollywood glitz for puppy shitz 
LA doggy style
Westside!

Copyright © cheryle sanders | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Did Santa Claus Broke The Reindeer Back

How Santa Claus broke the reindeer back

I am just disappointed he is such a play ball; he refuses to joined the community gym, he have no consideration for a hard working reindeer like me. Please do us all a favor and stop telling everyone that you’re tall and slim Mr. Claus
Santa put this in your pipe and smokes it. I am forming a union; you can contact my Lawyer Mr. Tin Tin

 I need some Fringe benefits else I am going to quit; year after year after year I chauffeur you around
This is not a smooth ride on green grass, it’s cold, cold snow “please looked around.
Breaking into people houses late at night, dropping off toys, we are plaster on every walls and poles
Santa this reindeer is off radar; you get off your fat ass or hire Casper the friendly ghost.

Copyright © Annie Lander | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trojan Horse

Black and white, in a line

Some are heavy, some are fine

Changing, creeping, cunning

Smoothly, quickly, running

Some are found, some are not

Isn't safe- destroy the lot

 

Poem written about a manual DOS scan to find Trojan virus ;)

 
My  brain is literally just full of poetry. I mean who the hell writes a poem about a Trojan while their computer is scanning?? Me.

Copyright © Kate Moore | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Missing Mouth

On a warm Thursday morning
my mouth leaped off my sleepy face and eluded 
my messy apartment.

It went absent for years.
All the “missing” signs with $100 dollar rewards
did not pay off.

So I had to cope with people’s kind aid.
They ate off my food bite by bite,
verbalized what was on my mind,
and smiled instead of me.

It was awful being lipless.
The joys that came with my mouth were suddenly omitted, like:
Leaving smooches on people’s cheeks.
Laughing, (when I wanted to.)
Centering pouts to my foes.
Smiling to strangers.

Until one day, while reading the morning paper
the headlines said that a mouth had been found
lost.
So I went to the center where they said my mouth was
being taken care of.

When I got there I was flabbergasted with
what the Dentist had told me.
“Your mouth needed a leash,
that voiced tongue and
intimidating full set of teeth.
So we plucked out some of its fangs.
Oh, and its Wise teeth too.
You know all the commotion genius could do…” 

I frowned.
“And that vindictive tongue! Would
not keep silent. It screamed poems 
about licking society-inflicted wounds,
self-righteousness, individuality,
and those crazy things. So we chopped that
off too, until it could no longer sing.” 
he spoke with a hiss in his 
voice.

“I am proud to say that this is our 
greatest work so far.
Maya, you are finally healed.
This mouth was going to get you into a lot of trouble, young lady.
Now, would you like your mouth back?”

I shook my head with disapproval,
gushed into tears and stormed home.
I let my mouth go and set it free.
What use would a speechless mouth
have been to me?

Copyright © Maya Kaabour | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Restrictedtoo

Misspelled words and drawn remarks lend palatable distinction to the AIR surrounding this poems. The meaning of a word takes from the birth of the word as of a noun then applied in a misdirection as the adverb or worse the verb herself. Never in the outrage of this history of mankind will this poetry be repeated in this repetitive manner as this repititious drivel indicates. The person who pens these odious smears at justice is not human. No mere mortal could diatribe the snow or crucify a flower in the manner of a flouted lout outside the relm of possiblitites. Eye suggest to the reader ewe not to waste your time your very valuable bean time in a vain attempt at deciphering elements long non descript and void unless related to Poetry or forced to give Critique.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009